The Final Problem
by Sekah
Summary: Making and unmaking — doing and undoing — creating and destroying. Jim Moriarty is Peter Pan, demolishing lives and forgetting the people who owned them. Pairings: Moriarty/Sherlock and John/Sherlock. Unfinished, rated M for future content.


"This is part of the game, Sherlock."

"You can't be serious," Holmes drawled. His hawkish grey eyes were darting, stratagems dividing his attention. It was a question of directing his thoughts. They were in Reichenbach Industries old factory, a Swiss-owned machinery plant in the western part of Docklands. So far, so obvious. The structure was built when the market was picking back up in 1985, four years after the recession of 1981. The room itself was dismal and rusted. The metal walls and the distinctly claustrophobic ceiling made noise ring, with a freezing draft running through a grate in the ceiling that stank of the Thames.

"Oh but I am," Moriarty chuckled, simpering. "Look at you, mouse caught in a cage too small. You're trying _so hard_ to think of a way out of this one. I can see the cogs of your mind turning, turning." He giggled. "Bring him," Moriarty said to the man standing hidden in the doorway at his right, casual as you please. From his footsteps, the hidden man stood at 1.86 meters, with rather impressive muscle mass for his size, though he was quieter than he should have been with that stature: a professional, then, and a skilled one. He used Ajuvèn 2N1 Shampoo & Conditioner, which was a brand marketed mostly in America and targeted to men of African descent. Useless information, discarded.

This time was different, certainly. Sherlock was irritated by the difference, finding it hard to be frightened. He was unused to fear. Again, he shifted and squirmed on the soiled mattress he'd woken up on and twisted the knots binding his wrists. No good. Double constrictors, both of them, they were cutting off circulation in his hand entirely and would have to be sawed off with a knife. His fingers must be turning an interesting shade of blue.

He was zoning in and out, _disoriented _even, though staving it off: side effects of the Rohypnol that had been dissolved into Watson's soda, bought by the unsuspecting Mrs. Hudson. Curse it all! He should have noticed the salty taste lacing the sweet, or the can's admittedly clever contamination. It was a foolish mistake. Sherlock was unused to making those. _And how kind of Moriarty to wait until the Rohypnol is out of my system before making his move, _Sherlock thought sardonically.

That was good, at least. He didn't want to dance for the puppet master, but cut his strings. For that, Holmes needed to be able to think.

"I wonder what it is I want from you." Moriarty was in full rhetorical form, swaying from side to side in obvious delight. "Look at you, so un_dig_nified." His lips pursed when his eyes moved momentarily to the side. He smiled that cool psychotic smile when his eyes returned to Sherlock's.

Sherlock's dander was up; his anxiety was finally increasing. "Boring," he snapped, mouthing off. "I know what you want." He still sat up on the mattress, momentarily more attuned to the man approaching with Watson than thwarting Moriarty.

His brow furrowed almost imperceptibly when he smelled the gasoline and heard Watson being dragged to the side. There was a muffled shout in Watson's low tone of voice; gagged then. A door closed. _Steel, _Holmes thought, _heavy and with mediocre oiling on the hinges, leading to a side room located through that wall._ Sherlock stared at the right bracing wall as if he could bore holes in it with his glare.

"I told you I would burn you, Sherlock," Moriarty said, amused, drinking up Holmes' evaluations of his worsening situation. "I can't help but extend the sentence to your favourite pet. Burns can be rather nasty at second and third degree levels. Watson will probably survive," he added lightly, his eyebrows going up, "though I'm afraid you won't find him near so pleasant to look at."

"The threat is obvious," Holmes said flatly, trying to subdue his racing heartbeat, trying to _think_. "How dull of you to build on it."

"I'm in an obvious mood today," Moriarty mused. Those wide liquid eyes ran over the lanky man before him, the mop of black hair and the careless position of his legs. "Besides, he added, "I have something very special planned for you."

Sherlock's brow furrowed. He didn't like that smile. Not one bit.

* * *

**Author's Note: **The Reichenbach Falls were the scene of the original Sherlock Holmes' final (or so the author intended it to be) struggle with Moriarty, which occurred in Arthur Conan Doyle's short story The Final Problem. For the uninitiated, Moriarty and Holmes grappled, and both plunged over the side of the falls, ostensibly to their deaths. I'm playing with a different downfall in this story.


End file.
